


If Found Please Call

by Semiotaxonomy



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Family, Gen, attempts to punch you the reader in the chest through text, ghostcousins, short oneshots, the title didn't mean anything anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-05-17 05:45:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5856439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semiotaxonomy/pseuds/Semiotaxonomy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm turning this into a repository for whatever ghostcousins short fics I write. I like the ghostcousins, okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mettaton considers telling them who he is. You know, maybe just mention it sometime. No biggie.

"i'm a huge fan," Napstablook had said, and why wouldn't they be? Who wasn't? Mettaton's face, voice and _presence_ could be found in every home across the Underground, enlivening every life and brightening every smile. It was like he'd never left at all.

Except for the fact that they were a celebrity and follower now, and an auteur and staff, not a pair of silly creatures playing movie star in the backyard. Except for that.

Now, Mettaton didn't _do_ guilt. He made a point of that. Especially when he'd already fixed the bulk of the problem; this was in some ways better, honestly. Blooky deserved to be discovered by their idol -- by someone they admired, someone with no reason to be biased, someone who never acknowledged anything less than the best. (Someone who'd never broken a promise to them, _whatever_.) Thus, it wasn't guilt that brushed softly against his soul, the way butterflies would stir in a human stomach for some reason, on certain rare occasions.

For instance, when he'd originally brought them to Hotland and shown them around his monument to himself. Anyone would be awed by his 32.3-foot billboard (the exact height of that section of the cavern) and Mettaton privately had to admit that Blooky wasn't hard to impress (all the more reason they needed him). Watching their eyes widen, he could almost touch the way he'd felt the first time he saw himself. But they'd been even more starstruck backstage, shyly trying and failing to disguise the savvy with which they inspected his sound equipment, and it tickled him.

There was the first time he put up their name near his. This was also the first time in a long while that he’d bothered with _any_ credits that weren’t ‘Mettaton’ -- and yes, he realized now that that too maybe hadn’t been the best of him. His name just looked so right on screens, in lights and encrusted with rhinestones. He’d wondered if Napstablook’s wouldn’t, given he still had trouble actually saying it instead of the nickname… but no, it was lovely, fit nicely under his in smaller proportions and less outrageous color schemes. He beamed showing it off to them, wanting to kick himself, and they apologized that their name was so long.

There was one late night when the crew had gotten takeout and Napstablook didn't speak up, so Mettaton dictated the order for them -- without thinking, exactly the way they liked, right down to no ghost peppers. That had gotten absolute stunned adoration, despite the fact that the extra side of coleslaw had traditionally been for snails.

And the first time he'd had to hear from somebody else that they'd had a rough day, been heard crying all night, and failed to emerge to the world that morning. He’d of course been much too late to do anything; he refused to entertain any doubt that he _could_ have done anything.

Above all, the time he'd asked them a question and found himself waiting for the answer. It had been hard to get the words flowing right even for Mettaton, and talking was one of his greatest specialties; perhaps that was why the silence burned. He never actually doubted that they would agree to join him. Napstablook had cried then too, and repeatedly apologized for it, but Mettaton was still one of very few people who could identify their rare tears of joy.

He'd meant to tell them then. He still meant to tell them sometime. Mettaton wasn't _stupid_ ; he could understand perfectly well that he had made certain mistakes, which simply proved that anyone could, and that if he honestly wanted to do better then _being honest_ might be a good plan. Still. Still! His life was better now, their life was better, and there were shipments of glitter that weren't going to schedule themselves. He should do it, he thought, before they left for the Surface, but --

Mettaton didn't do anxiety either. He'd experienced it exactly once, before his first audition; it could barely be called that, monsterkind had really had no culture before him, and if he'd ever felt a drop of doubt it evaporated the moment he got on stage. So this was ridiculous. He was a businessman who knew how to make things happen whatever the resistance. And he was a performer who had already experienced every heart-rending confrontation he could personally come up with, which was a lot. He could treat this as another role, then. Set the scene to set the tone he liked, sketch out his lines, recall Dramatic Pose #17 from the climax of _Oh! Betrayal_. His audience, all one of them, would be overwhelmed. No eye left dry, although that wasn't much of a feat in this case.

He got them to what he considered his main dressing room (there were others), the one that he could never get quite as nice as he liked because there simply wasn't a stylish way to store torque guns and industrial paint sealant. If this were being broadcast -- which he'd considered, but had to concede it would probably constitute ghost cruelty -- it would be a set chosen to instill a touch of uncharacteristic, carefully sculpted intimacy. He poised under the additional lighting installed for this moment, affected a precise blend of earnest regret, and said, "Darling, there's something I need to tell you. Something I should have confessed a long time ago."

It tickled. Their face fell, very slowly, and Mettaton almost thought he wouldn't be able to stand this after all. Then they said, "me too," and he brightened considerably. He couldn't imagine what secret transgression they could possibly have to feel bad for, but it seemed much more like the natural order of things.

"Oh! Why, sweetheart, I'm sure you have nothing to worry about. Why don't you go first?"

"um... well." Putting them on the spot still meant a certain amount of waiting. "before you came and got me... i'd been alone for a long time. i worried a lot, and i didn't know what i should do. so i tried not to, but... i gave in... and i peeked at one of your diaries. i'm sorry..."

Mettaton discovered that his mouth was hanging open, one hand risen to it in a fetchingly delicate posture. All trace of doubt was evaporated; the feeling could best be described as _you knew the whole time and I'm going to lovingly wring your nonexistent neck_ . That was fine, though, that was fine. That was an affectionate, _familial_ aggravation, the kind that required a certain level of non-sculpted intimacy, the kind that felt a little like coming home, which he had no intention of doing. This was in some ways better. "Blooky," he said firmly, "it's in the past.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, Undertale isn't just a story about ghostcousins? You're silly.
> 
> Still don't know if a continuation of AFTSNWME is gonna happen or not... maybe not. But here's a little oneshot in a similar vein at least, so there's that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd been meaning to write this for some time and I kinda wanted to make something longer of it, but I got it all out for July 24 because it was National Cousins Day! 8D

He was up bright and early that morning, perched on a fence watching Blooky water the snails. A ghost didn't need to perch on anything, of course, but he could imagine legs swinging against the wood below him. It was a giddy feeling. There was only so much fence still standing, and he might as well enjoy it while he could.  
  
Not that being awake and chipper was unusual for him, just the other part. He'd never taken much interest in farm chores, nor was he starting to now, but, well, he was in a good mood. Blooky, at least, was charming, their movements self-conscious under the added scrutiny. He hadn't offered an explanation. Or help, for that matter, which was fine; there was barely enough work for one person by now, and they'd been taking over more and more of it already. They cared about it in a way he didn't, and he disliked it in a way they didn't, so why not? They'd be fine.  
  
"I'm telling you, dear," he said instead, "you really ought to start a rodeo. _I'd_ pay to watch you wrangle these beasts; you look dashing."  
  
"do i..." they answered tolerantly. "i don't know if that would be a good idea, though. none of them know many tricks or anything, except boots, and i feel like fame would go to his head."  
  
"Ah, but if that's Boots's dream, how can you bear to hold him back? It may be all he needs is a talented sweetheart of a handler like you to keep him grounded."  
  
Blooky glanced over at him. "you're in a good mood today," they said, pleased.  
  
"It's a good day. No, no, keep looking this way -- there it is, I can see a smile. You're smiling, it's indisputably a good day," he sing-songed, leaning forward in a way that if he were humanoid would look fantastic and fall over immediately. "Why shouldn't I be in a good mood, living in the lap of luxury like this? I even get a free show with breakfast!" It might have been hard once to make that joke without a trace of bitterness showing, but he was free of it today. And really, nobody deserved to be on the bitter-free receiving end more than Blooky.  
  
"heh," they stated; they were with him, he could tell. "oh, actually, that reminds me... i hope this doesn't ruin the good day, it's okay if you say no..."  
  
"Darling, you *know* you couldn't ruin a good day. What do you need?"  
  
"um... i know tomorrow is my day to cook, but i was wondering if we could switch with today? it's nothing big... there's just this q-and-a going on on one of my forums that i'd rather not miss... and i thought maybe you wouldn't mind, since you have your human club tonight anyway." They'd come over while they talked, watching him anxiously, now waiting for a response, which was odd.  
  
In fact, it brought him up short, uncharacteristically off-balance for a second, because -- because? There shouldn't be a problem agreeing to that. Nothing was going to happen. Alphys was only bringing in a _prototype_ , she'd been very clear about that, and it probably wouldn't even work right. And even if it did, it wasn't like he had to -- just leave. Just drop everything and change his life entirely overnight. It would be more of a transition, surely. For now, he'd just try things out and see how it all went, and tomorrow he'd be back like always.  
  
So there wouldn't be a problem, and he'd gladly accomodate them; the words just took a moment coming. The smile too. "Of course, Blooky."  
  
And he didn't need to worry about that, because, again, there was nothing to worry about. It was just that, well, he couldn't see Blooky letting the snails go hungry if something unexpected happened, but themself maybe. One way or another, that evening, a tidily-wrapped dish of ghost rotini casserole snuck its way into their fridge, with their name on a note just to be clear -- before he left, while they were out washing eggshells. They were still at it when he floated by with his airy goodbye.  
  
He didn't come back like always.


End file.
